The plan was somewhat convoluted, but necessarily so, given the situation. More reconnaissance would be necessary, but thanks to the information he had gleaned earlier in the day, he felt reasonably sure that he would eventually find a way to enter the mansion.

The killing itself-should it become necessary-couldn’t be done overtly. A homicide investigation might lead back to his employers. And it might alert the Puissance Treize that The Agency was onto them. Something best left until the reprisals were over, and the enemy was burying its dead.

That suggested an “accident” of some sort. The kind everyone would accept. But how?

That was a problem the assassin would have to work out on his own.

The Bon Appétit was everything 47 expected it to be, which was to say a Portuguese imitation of a French restaurant, complete with Eiffel Tower wallpaper, candlelit tables, and an imperious staff. According to the information provided by Fazio, Thorakis and his mistress typically ate dinner at 8:00, so Agent 47 arrived at 7:30. The Nikon was concealed in a shopping bag.

Having been scrutinized by the maître d’, and clearly been found wanting, the man with the bald pate and protruding paunch was shown to a tiny table located right next to the kitchen. Which, ironically enough, was the sort of spot Agent 47 often chose for himself so he could escape out the back should the necessity arise.

Indeed, it was a terrible table, since the heavily laden waiters had a tendency to brush it as they came and went, not to mention all the noise that emanated from the kitchen itself. However, 47 could hear snatches of conversation every once in a while, some of which were quite entertaining. The maître d’ was known as o porco[8], somebody named Joao was HIV-positive, and a person referred to as “the goddamned dishwasher” had quit without warning.

Meanwhile, in between bits of culinary gossip, Agent 47 was served a hot hors d’oeuvre, yellow pepper soup, and a hearty boeuf Bourguignon, which left the assassin too full for dessert.

At neighboring tables tourists from all over the world talked to one another about the castles they’d seen, what they were planning to do during their visit, and a variety of personal matters, all of which seemed to center around money, sex, and power. What 47 thought of as the “unholy trinity,” since those issues were at the heart of every murder he was hired to carry out.

But while such contemplations were interesting, his true reason for eating at the Bon Appétit was nowhere to be seen. So 47 paid the bill, took his camera, and left the establishment.

Once outside, the assassin retraced his steps from earlier in the day, except that this time he went uphill when the street split, rather than follow it down as he had before. It was dark by now, but the soft night air, the spill of light from the old-fashioned street lamps, and the buttery glow that emanated from the surrounding windows combined to create a surreal sense of peace and quiet.

It wasn’t long before he arrived at a point directly above and behind the stone house. Others were out and about as well, so it was necessary for him to bend over awkwardly, and retie a shoelace while a German couple walked past. Then, once the tourists were a good fifty feet down the street, it was time to swing a leg up over the iron railing and lower himself into the inky blackness beyond.

The hillside was steep, and 47 very nearly lost his balance as his street shoes sent a small avalanche of dirt and gravel down the slope, but he was able to prevent what could have been a disastrous fall by grabbing on to a sturdy branch.

Most of the mansion’s lights were on, but there was a good deal of foliage in the way, so the agent knew it would be necessary to work his way farther downhill before there would be any possibility of seeing in. And that was unfortunate, because while it had been merely annoying up on the street, the potbelly was a real encumbrance on the hillside, and made it difficult for him to move.

Nevertheless, he got a better grip on the shopping bag, chose his footholds with care, and gradually worked his way down until he was standing on top of an ancient retaining wall. It was some fifteen feet higher than the stone wall that surrounded the property, and but a single glance was sufficient to confirm that he could see into at least some of the windows, including what appeared to be a well-lit master bedroom.

He lowered the shopping bag to the ground, fumbled for the Nikon, and was in the process of removing the lens cap when the German shepherd began to bark. The assassin froze as a security guard passed through the pool of illumination generated by a spotlight mounted under the eaves. The man said something unintelligible to the animal, which came over to collect a pat on the head before following the human around a corner.

The agent waited a full ten seconds before bringing the camera up and turning it on. He could see that there was someone in the bedroom, and once he brought the image into focus, everything came clear. A beautiful black woman was seated in front of a mirror, brushing her hair, and staring at her own reflection. The Nikon made its characteristic click-whir as Agent 47 began to take pictures. Not so much of her as of the room-reconnaissance that could be of value later on.

And he was still at it when he heard a rock rattle down the slope, and went for a Silverballer.

Except that his pistols were back in Rome.

That meant that his best defense would be to react the way Scaparelli would, which was with an aggressive attitude, and a certain amount of bluster.

“Who’s there?” he demanded with a hiss. “I have mace!”

“Save it for someone else,” Fazio said sotto voce, as he skidded into the shadow 47 currently occupied. “I never should have told you about the back-shot. So, is she naked?”

“No,” 47 said lightly. “But one can hope!”

“One sure can,” the American replied, as he brought a camera up to his eye. “Wait a minute. Who do we have here? Thorakis, that’s who! Okay, boys and girls, give me the money shot.”

Satisfied that he wasn’t about to be attacked by a counterassassin, Agent 47 turned back toward the house, and discovered that the paparazzo was correct. Thorakis had entered the bedroom, and judging from the towel that was wrapped around his waist, he was fresh from a shower. His broad shoulders were thick with curly black hair. The woman said something as the shipping magnate bent over to kiss her.

“Here we go!” Fazio enthused, as his camera clicked away. “Screw the bitch! Take her standing up!”

But as newsworthy as such an act might have been, it wasn’t going to happen. The window was open to let the night air enter the room, which meant both men could hear the phone ring. Fazio swore as Thorakis went to answer it, and his mistress left the room a few moments later.

The two lurkers waited, hoping for something more, but other than a few brief sightings, nothing particularly exciting happened. And once the upstairs lights went out, it was obviously time to adjourn.

“Looks like it’s time for a nightcap,” Fazio said glumly. “Want to join me?”

Agent 47 had absolutely no desire for a drink, but knew Scaparelli would accept the offer, which meant he had to as well. So the assassin followed the American through the trees, up the steep hillside, and onto the street above. From there it was a short walk to a bar where Fazio was greeted by his first name.

After a round of beers and a game of darts, 47 was able to excuse himself and return to the hotel. Once in his room he pushed the dresser in front of the door, made a place for himself on the floor, and promptly fell asleep.